Ideal: to drive the lane and look for dishes,
to see the open man, give him his bucket.
The one-on-one for which we are now counseled
blueprints a perfect symmetry that’s hard to hold.
Like my friend who dreams of his ex
and wakes to find a moonlit lawn of deer.
In our nightly houses
the dolls insist that we are faithful to ourselves.
When I wake up in a bad mood,
I wonder why my point ignores my shooting guard.
This realm of giving, this realm of reciprocity:
I need a Mr. Make-It-Happen,
a deus ex machina, an all-star
down among us who deigns to fix our gears.
Until then, these reuptake inhibitors are splendid,
as when I find myself a deer on some strange lawn,
my garden-party head a promiscuity of maps
with toll-free grassy lanes and cul-de-sacs.
Copyright © 2015 Michael Morse
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.